


the accompaniment

by PenzyRome



Category: An American in Paris - Gershwin/Lucas
Genre: 2000 metaphors and 1600 commas later.., Canon Compliant, Creative Partnerships, Denial of Feelings, During Canon, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sort Of, adam swears a lot. hence the t and up, all the time!, idk what to say here. they're gay and sad for 7k words, milo has a gf because I Say So, not a tag but im making it one. true love means being artistic with ur bae
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 04:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20540363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenzyRome/pseuds/PenzyRome
Summary: Adam knows that, in general, he's difficult to be around. He's hard to work with and hard to love. Henri is, likewise, incredibly hard to work with. But he's also easier to love him than it should ever be to love another human being.





	the accompaniment

**Author's Note:**

> so i titled this google doc "aaipining" and that's all you need to know about this fic or me. also idk timeline stuff bc i don't care about canon so. aaip itself takes place a bit after the end of the war in this. henri n adam have been doing shows for a while now. if that isn't how canon works idc

He always blames their partnership on Henri, and Henri goes along with it. Subconsciously, they have agreed upon the story of Henri being the one so thoroughly impressed by  _ Adam  _ that he begged for a song, and then another. Sometimes, he thinks Henri believes it. It sounds well enough like the two of them.

In truth, though, it was Adam. Adam who sat there and listened while a pretty French boy told him all about his song-and-dance dreams. Adam who frowned sympathetically when Henri said he wished he had something original to sing, but that he was garbage at writing. Adam who offered to write something for him, faking nonchalance, saying it would be nice to get back into jazz.

Henri really is very pretty. And very French. Henri is very Henri, that’s the only way to say it. What an infuriating man.

But Adam kept writing songs for him, no matter how many times he denied wanting to.

Eventually, it became one of the few things he ever really did. He made sure the cafe wasn’t about to go under, and he drank, and he wrote Henri’s songs. Every morning, Henri would come by, and Adam would play along as Henri worked out the mechanics and notes and the words written just for him, only for him.

Along the way, they became friends, somewhat on accident. They started drifting off into talk of Henri’s parents and Adam’s training and the girl Henri wanted to marry. Almost naturally, they went from being near each other as long as they needed to be to being near each other as long as they could be.

Henri told Adam about his mother flying into a fit when he showed up thirty minutes late to a dinner party because they had lost track of time, and all Adam could think about was how ridiculous it was that anyone like Henri would want to be around him all day.

So there they are in the present, and Adam’s griping, like usual.

“And it’s fucked up,” he says into his drink. “But what’s the point of arguing, y’know?”

“And that is the point, no?” Henri counters, because Henri always seems to find a point in arguing. “Your works are dreary, and then all the… the hopelessness continues!”

“Sadness begets sadness,” Adam says, hoping it sounds dismissive and not like debating with Henri is basically his only source of joy.

Henri rolls his eyes, the top button of his usually immaculate dress shirt unbuttoned hours ago. “And so more follows!”

“Hey, you want me to keep writing for you or not?”

That shuts Henri up quickly. The empty threats always do, the things that seem to carry so much gravity because they promise something much more serious than Adam could ever go through with. Whether either of them like it or not, Henri is the oddest muse Adam’s ever had, but they’d be godforsaken to let each other go.

Adam tries, really tries, to imagine a day in his life if Henri weren’t there. He’d wake up late, because no one of importance would be there to see in the morning. He’d quit writing lyrics, because what would be the point without anyone to sing them? He’d drink more, without anyone to share the bottle with. Life without Henri? Essentially empty. Adam doesn’t want a life like his first few months in Paris, living off of charity but not having any purpose in living anyways.

So he keeps writing, and Henri keeps singing his words, and they keep talking, because what the hell else are they going to do?

Henri starts getting nightclub gigs, in places that were shut down during the occupation. In one of them, Adam sees two men leaning on each other, and not even Henri can make him tear his eyes away from them.

Most of the time, though, he spends that time in the clubs staring up at Henri and playing the music that he memorized long ago. Henri’s still new onstage, with the same air as a clumsy fawn, but it’s endearing. Sometimes, too, he’ll be perfectly adjusted for a moment, and Adam will watch, thoroughly bewildered, as Henri transports all of them to somewhere entirely different than a shabby Parisian nightclub.

When they’re performing, they are woven together perfectly. Each note compliments the other, builds and builds into a prettier product than they ever hope to create. When they rehearse, they are two clashing forces, fighting for their own chunk of a performance in which all the fighting leading up to it will never even matter.

Henri says that Adam is too gloomy. Adam says that Henri is too naive. One image is too blue, the other too rosy. Sometimes, the end product is gray, but often, it’ll end up dazzling colors that neither of them ever intended.

All that to say that yes, they do work well together. Better than anyone could have expected.

But new patrons of the cafe still say that their banter can get disturbingly personal, and more than once, one of them has struck a nerve that puts their meetings on hold for a few days.

Then, the war finally ends, and a train drops off the soldiers that were fighting the battles Adam can’t anymore.

Most of the soldiers are French, returning home to their sweethearts, but Jerry Mulligan is most definitely not French.

Adam just about gags on cigarette smoke for the first time since he was seventeen when he hears Jerry speak for the first time.

Adam’s French still isn’t exactly wooing anybody, but holy hell. Jerry’s physically hurts his head. He gets him back to English as fast as possible, and a few minutes into their champagne and chatter, Henri rushes in as usual, all a flurry of words and thoughts.

Within a few minutes, the cafe is just that-- a flurry. Henri always makes it so.

He switches up the time signature, snaps at Adam when Adam tries to run away with the music, twirls waitresses around and makes people smile. And the entire time, Adam is entirely helpless to it. He complains, of course, and if it were anybody else turning his music on its head, he’d be furious. But it’s Henri, Henri who’s dancing around and beaming at Adam, so what can he do?

Jerry sings, too, and it’s a nice moment of camaraderie, even if it feels odd to hear any voice but Henri’s singing Adam’s words. It’s been so long since Adam’s written for himself, wanted to hear the words just to see what they sounded like. He’s written those words for Henri, so who else on earth would he expect to sing them? It’s not a  _ thing.  _ It’s not!

Then the power goes out, and it becomes just so transparently obvious how scarred Paris still is. A man calls out reassurances, and as Adam moves through the dark to go get the bicycle, he feels Henri’s hand brush against the small of his back. Henri gives him a small, comforting smile, before heading off to work his magic on the rest of the cafe.

Adam and Jerry haul the bike back to everyone to find that Henri’s brought the light in already, as only he can. People are dancing, banging cutlery and stomping on the floor and clapping their hands all together in some off-kilter medley. The two of them find their places next to each other, watching as Jerry pedals.

The light comes back on, and a picture is taken, and Henri slings his arm over Adam’s shoulder, and they all raise their glasses into the air.

The picture gets handed over to Adam later. They all look like messes, except Henri, as always.

Then, of course, Lise comes into their lives. She stumbles into Adam’s world, a kind of identical mess to him, and then as soon as the music begins, she starts floating. That’s one thing they have in common, at least. She leaves Adam with a kiss on the cheek and the flower from her hair, and then Adam is promptly given what might become the biggest commission of his life. He isn’t sure which one means more to him.

A ballet. A whole fucking ballet, right out of his brain. His own to shape, for Lise to dance. Lise becomes a new muse for him, the same furious way Henri is, but there’s something easier about writing for her. When he writes for Henri, it’s like walking through a field of landmines, worrying what will rip him to shreds, anxious to stumble, terrified to fall.

When he writes for Lise, it's remarkably simple. She takes shape in the music, a requiem for the lost and the fallen.

Adam writes like he's gone mad. His music is written late at night, when he's drunk off his ass and alone with his thoughts and feeling so much more broken than he could ever describe. He still writes music for Henri, hopeful music. Music that's just like Henri with its insufferable light.

They perform in more clubs, and in one, their dressing room sits right behind the stage. Some American jazz group is playing onstage, and as Henri passes by, his dress shirt unbuttoned, he grabs Adam’s hands and swings him around in a circle, graceful as can be.

Adam stumbles with him, clumsy in his own body, and Henri lets go and walks over to the other side of the little room without even noticing. Adam turns back to the mirror, swallowing heavily as he ties his tie.

That night, Henri is a little surer on his feet than usual, a little smoother, and Adam never takes his eyes off him, never once fumbles with the sheet music he isn’t even looking at.

He writes a love song, thinking about Lise smiling at him and how blessed it feels to be cared about in the tiniest way. He hands it over to Henri, who beams and demands they rehearse it immediately.

“What’s all the fuss about?” Adam asks afterwards. “It’s just a song.”

“It is beautiful,” Henri insists. “And cheery! A change of space.”

“Pace.”

“Yes, pace,” Henri says, frowning at him. It vanishes quickly, and he closes the copy of the song Adam gave him up in his folder. “It is wonderful, Adam.”

Adam goes upstairs and writes a piece for the ballet. It’s about the letter that shows up at your door, the coming home from war and seeing someone else through your lover’s window. About loving because it’s the only thing you know how to do anymore, and then not being loved in return. He doesn’t know where it comes from, he just plays out angry, desperate notes and doesn’t even try to imagine what words could possibly go along with it. He writes words for Henri and Henri only, and the idea of Henri being unloved is utterly ridiculous.

They rehearse the love song more and more, and Jerry stops by one day. They talk like they always do, and then Henri sets a loaded gun onto the table.

“My mother thinks my interests lie…  _ beyond  _ the fairer sex.” Henri laughs, and Jerry stares into his glass. Adam just can’t fucking breathe, can’t think about anything except Henri picking that fucking handgun up and laying two shots right through Adam’s head.

“You don’t think that, do you?”

Adam thinks about the two men leaning into each other, about writing songs that he isn’t even sure of the origin of. About the soft, concerned way that Henri’s eyes bore into his own, pleading for Adam to abolish him of doubt.

He tells him the truth, of course. It wouldn’t change his feelings one bit. Maybe it isn’t the full truth, but it’s a truth. And it’s the truth he’s willing to wrestle with for now.

And then he insults him, because how else would they resume any form of normalcy? He reaches over and messes with Henri’s bow tie as he does it, and Henri swats his hands away.

He wouldn’t let it sway his feelings about Henri one bit. That’s what he said, word for word. He wouldn’t let the idea of Henri being one of those men in the club make him think anything that he hadn’t already.

He tries to distract Henri with talk of clubs and performances, and it almost works before Henri gets caught again on the idea of his girl, possibly his fiance now, learning to love him.

Adam feels an angry little tug in his chest that makes his fingers twitch as they clutch at his sheet music. The idea of the proposal letter that he’d just been clamoring for a chance to read makes him suddenly sick to his stomach, and he pushes the basket of fries the waitress gives them over to Henri before they can talk any more.

That night, he writes about wounds that aren’t closed with a treaty and scars that refuse to fade with time. It’s all sentimental garbage, and he throws it out the next morning, except for one line of angry, booming, deep piano that sounds more like thunder than music. He slides it into that earlier bit about love-- it’s the rude awakening the piece needs, and the ticking in the back of his brain calms for long enough that he makes it through he and Henri’s rehearsal on one bottle of liquor.

When his commission for the party announcing Lise as the principal dancer goes south rapidly, Adam can’t help but marvel at the fucked-up interconnectedness of the world. Jerry’s fancy new party date is the Milo that got Adam his job in the first place, the rich patrons she tried so hard to please are Henri’s parents, Lise is Henri’s fucking fiance.

A deep sort of pain boils in his stomach when the engagement is announced, and he doesn’t look too deeply into why, precisely, it hurts like hell. Lise is art in motion, music’s every note, and there she is, on the arm of everything saccharine and bright. It’s a dizzying sort of picture, Lise’s light, tragic sort of blue humming quietly next to the daffodils-and-sunshine yellow glow that seems to surround Henri wherever he goes.

Such is the way of life, though. The fucked-up messes of the world flock to whatever hope they can get, like moths to a flame. Adam is the subversion, he’s forced himself to be. He sees through the sorrowful picture of it all, sees how a lamp can just burn you in a different sort of way. He is wiser by force, and he knows better. His mind has demanded that his heart learn better, and finally, after years, it’s paying off.

If he fell for people the way people like Lise and Henri fell for each other, he’d have long ago found some sweet opera singer who’d call him brilliant and laugh at him in the morning.

But he hasn’t, because he knows better. He swears that he knows better.

Still, when he goes home, he writes all about comedies that end in marriages, and how his fucking comedy-of-errors life won’t ever end like that, and how everyone else seems to get a duet, so you have to pretend for the life of you that you don’t care.

There are words. There are words in this stupid song, and they’re not written for Henri to sing, they’re not written for anyone, except maybe they are.

Then, he drinks until he stops hearing Henri’s pretty voice saying “beyond the fairer sex” and stops seeing Lise standing in a dress worth more than Adam’s whole life, kissing Henri.

And then he goes to sleep, just for an excuse to stop feeling.

Adam’s already dressed for the show when Henri, the vain prick that he is, hasn’t even tucked in his shirt yet.

He walks back from checking on the piano that the club’s supplied, and Henri’s looking at himself in the mirror, his eyebrows furrowed a little. Adam has to hold his hand out to block him when he starts to walk backwards, and Henri turns to see him, his smile lighting back up.

Henri makes some statement about Radio City, and Adam half-listens, focusing on a bug on the ground-- it’s less risky than looking Henri right in the eye. He’s more disheveled than Adam usually ever sees him, even with his hair done perfectly and his shirt free of wrinkles.

“... and I will have twenty beautiful women to back me up.”

Adam catches that bit, and he snorts. “What, can’t you defend yourself?”

He intends it just as the quick kind of jab that they forget tomorrow. But as soon as he continues, as he asks why Henri would dare to wrench Lise away right before she tips over the edge into stardom, he knows that something has taken a turn, and he knows he can’t take it back.

Henri spits out his side of the story, and Adam feels his heart become as heavy as lead in his chest. He thinks about a bullet going straight through his leg, ripping through muscles and tendons, ending whatever chance he had of doing any good in the war. He thinks about being desperate to help, waiting for so long for the chance to fight and to do the right thing, only to have it cut off faster than he could have ever expected. He thinks about watching the war from Paris.

He thinks about Henri, who has done so much more than Adam expected, and quite possibly more than Adam himself had.

And like one of Jerry’s drawings, the rough, questionable parts of the illustration of Henri in Adam’s mind are erased. Lines start to take shape, surer than before, drawing in this odd man who knows so much more than anyone could have guessed he would by simply looking him in the eye.

Adam thinks about the number of times that he’s written off Henri’s optimism as being unable to see the dark. Not having checked around the corners, and only seeing a charming cobblestone street. And suddenly, he starts to think about how hard it must be to see the world as hopefully as Henri does when he has, in fact, checked every corner, and fought the battles that await him around each.

And then he thinks about Lise, with her shades of blue and gray and lavender. Her parents, gone. Adam knows they’re gone, can see it, fresh in his mind. The very thing that he went out to war trying to stop, and there Henri is, having done so much more to help. Adam knows it’s morbid, but he can’t help but think that he could have, so easily, been the one in Lise’s shoes. And he gets it, he gets how she feels like there is nothing in the world that could repay the debt. And he thinks about how sick it is that there’s a debt in the first place.

And he doesn’t know what to think anymore, what he could possibly say. The world is so fucking cruel, how’s he supposed to just say that to this man who’s seen so much and still believes that they should be able to be happy?

So he simply begs him to remember bravery when it comes to a woman who's so close to her chance to make the world a little better.

Immediately afterward, they’re pulled onstage, and Henri promptly proceeds to cause a mess. It’s on a level that Adam’s never seen; Henri, who walks down the street with as much grace as most people have on the dance floor, knocking a table onto the ground from nerves.

It’s beautifully human, and the drawing continues to take shape, sharp angles and soft curves.

Adam whispers to Henri from his place on the sidelines, to remember the stupid, reckless, foolish dream that’s the reason either of them are in this mess in the first place. A stage bigger than Adam’s entire apartment, backup lines twenty strong. Top hats and canes and tap shoes and fantasies that’ll never come true, but god, in that moment, Adam wants it more than anything.

And before Adam's eyes, Henri's back straightens. His voice becomes louder and bolder, and before anybody knows it, everyone is, very simply, swept away.

And this,  _ this  _ is it. That feeling that a world does not exist outside of this man's voice and this old nightclub. That's the exact feeling that Adam wishes he could get drunk on, wishes he could drown himself in until there's nothing else.

Watching him up on that stage, he can actually believe in all those stupid dreams. He can see, in his mind’s eye, Henri as the picture of everything new and bright and romantic. As a staple of culture. He can see the rest of the world flocking to that light, just like Lise does.

The song ends, and he stares for a moment, watching Lise run up to Henri like it’s in slow motion.

He can see the rest of the world flocking to that light, just like  _ he  _ does.

The image is complete, in his mind-- Henri, in every bit of cowardice and bravery and soft beauty and sharp wit and grim desperation to make the world right. There he is, right there, reaching out to hold Lise’s hands, beaming, the two of their lights, a steady candle and a fucking bonfire, blending together, and god, Adam loves him.

Adam loves him. He loves Henri Baurel, even when he’s an impatient prick, even when he pushes at Adam to be something better.  _ Especially  _ when he pushes at Adam to be something better.

But there he is, holding hands with Lise, and--

Then Henri’s parents are there, and then there is scorn and derision and then there’s love? There’s love, and forgiveness, and a quiet acceptance of the other. There’s Henri’s pass, his ticket, handed over and stamped, to a new life. A new world. His father is right, he would be wasted. Who in their right mind would put Henri in an office to decide on cotton blends when there he just was, on that stage, shining?

Lise runs away from Jerry, and Adam can’t blame her. He’d like to do some running right now, himself. He stands up to stop Jerry, and then in an instant, he’s on the ground.

He waves Jerry away, bites back the urge to scream, or to run. He can’t run, because Henri’s right there, still in that very room, and Adam’s already done so much running away.

He helps himself up, and Jerry offers an apology. He doesn’t take it.

He barely even pays attention when Henri and Jerry start snapping at each other, instead working to straighten out his leg, looking anywhere except the two of them.

Then there’s a sharp sound, and when Adam looks up, Jerry’s on the ground, and Henri’s fist is balled up at his side.

Adam can’t say he’s mad about that turn of events. They all deserve to get punched in the face at this point, honestly.

And he knows, he knows he just told Henri that he wouldn’t tell anyone, but Henri said that it was dangerous for the wrong people to hear, or the right people at the wrong time, and Jerry, right now, is the right person at the right time.

“Henri’s no coward, kiddo.”

And he’s not.

Jerry’s face goes slack as Adam tells the whole story, and Henri’s mouth tightens at the corners. It's horrific, really, how little you can know about the people you love.

“Adam,” Henri says, quiet and firm, and Adam meets his eyes. He tries to convey everything in one look, but it doesn’t work, it never does.

“Oh yeah, and… don’t tell anybody,” he tacks on the end, a flimsy excuse for a cutoff to a story that has yet to end. He can see how it ends, though, the finale that feels inevitable. Lise on Henri’s arm, Henri on Lise’s arm, both of them stuck in a lifelong commitment that doesn’t make either one of them happy. Henri will sing, and Lise will dance, and they’ll commit whatever they have to the art, since they don’t have anything else to love.

And there Adam’ll be, in Paris, alone except for Jerry. And he and Jerry will both spend their lives telling sad stories and drinking themselves to sleep, staring out at the city of light that’s missing its sun and stars.

Lise comes back and Henri leaves with her, and Adam feels his heart sink to his shoes. He's still confused about the whole love thing-- he knows, with a sudden clarity, the reason why he's dedicated so much to writing words that are for Henri only. But still, there's Lise, like always. The way she makes the world more beautiful, even if that beauty is somber.

He watches both of them walk away, and Milo stands up and walks towards them, offering a joke. That's the thing with a comedy of errors-- a joke is the only kind of comfort you get.

Milo's an odd woman. She's got every bit of elegance and grace that the rest of the world aspires to, but Adam can look right at her and see that, regardless, she's still made of shades of blue.

He has yet to find anyone who glows like Henri. Sometimes, his sunflower-yellow outshines the sun.

“So much we’ve had to endure,” he muses out loud, “everybody, just being alive. It ain’t what they tell you when you’re a kid.”

He doesn’t even know what he expected out of life, but it wasn’t this.

“So much you can’t ever… change.”

She puts a hand on his shoulder, and he lets it trail down so that they're holding each other's hands tightly. Those are the kind of things you can do with Milo-- things that would feel romantic with another woman simply feel natural with her. Like she's a sister to everyone on earth.

So much he can’t ever change.

Henri asking, “You don’t think that, do you?”

Lise glowing blue against the night sky when she belonged in the day.

The whole war, everything leading up to it, ripping the fabric of the world to shreds.

All of them, so fucking broken, with no end in sight.

“Wait,” he says, and as Jerry and Milo look over to him, things start finally slipping into place.  _ “Wait.” _ Milo tilts her head at him, and he scrambles for the words that could possibly describe the realization of something that he’s been told over and over again. “That,  _ that  _ is what I’ve been missing!”

Henri is right, of course. Adam labored under the delusion that he knew better for a long damn time, but he’s right, about so much. Not the whole Lise issue, but still, everything comes from that optimism, that light, that is so plainly Henri and probably lies at the core of just about everything that Adam’s ever seen him do.

And that moment of complete, utter dedication to that stupid, infuriating, lovely man is exactly what everyone always talks about. It’s the kind of love that makes Adam write countless songs for one person and one person only to sing.

“Life is already so dark,” he hears himself say. “If you have got the talent to make it brighter, give people hope…”

He’s griped and snapped and rebelled at every turn against Henri’s notion that they were there to make others happy. He called himself wiser, thought that he knew better.

He has never, never known better. He’s just been afraid to think that other people might rely on him.

“Why would you withhold that?”

He picks up his music, his mind already filled with flutes and booming percussion and love. “It’s gotta be a celebration, this whole ballet!” He fiddles with it for a moment, then smacks it in a moment of half-faux frustration.

“Goddammit! I hate it when French people are right.”

All three of them laugh, and the air is cleared, and he takes Milo’s arm and rushes away.

He spends the whole night writing about love, and triumph, and working so, so hard and finally getting something for it. About caring just for the hell of it, because what else are we supposed to do?

It’s a ballet, so of course there aren’t any words. In the back of his mind, though, he can hear Henri’s voice humming the way he does when Adam first hands him a piece of sheet music. It’s comforting and terrifying, recognizing just how entirely his creative process has become about Henri, and Henri only.

He pushes those thoughts away and writes some more.

He dedicates the piece to the Baurel family, their names written at the top, right under the title. If they ever find out, he’ll just say it was out of gratitude for their support.

Then the ballet, and afterwards, when they’re all still high off of the success, Lise hands him a rose and kisses each of his cheeks. She calls him her American in Paris, and for the first time, he glows.

When Adam tells her that she’s making a mistake, he means every word of it. In that moment, he isn’t considering her kindness or Henri being a light in any kind of darkness. He looks at them and he sees two people who will have condemned themselves to unhappiness if they misconstrue what will bring them peace. And he loves them both, regardless of what way, so he hopes desperately that the drive they leave for goes the way he wants it to.

He watches them walk away, then looks back down at the rose. It’s perfect in its simplicity, and he thinks, for a moment, about how he knows Henri gave Lise these flowers. In a disgustingly sentimental way, he smiles at the idea that any flower Henri gifts would somehow wind up in his own hands. He banishes the thought quickly, leaning back against the piano, and he looks by when people congratulate him.

It turns out he’s the toast of Paris.

One reporter calls the ballet “shockingly hopeful”. Another says it “leaves the heart pounding and the soul with a new sense of determination”. Yet another, “it speaks to the pride and optimism that can rise from the ashes of trauma”.

And Henri calls  _ him  _ a poet. Some reporters could make a killing cranking out lyrics.

Jerry and Lise wind up together. It’s not any kind of surprise, in the least. Jerry’s got two working legs and an American swagger to him, things neither Henri nor Adam have both of. And, well, he’s attracted to her. That helps.

Adam’s not really hurt at all. Lise is music in motion, and now she’s there, forever, imprinted onto pages and pages of sheet music. He’s helped create her dream, and she his. He got a friend and a career out of the whole thing, which truly is better than he could have hoped for.

Lise is first his friend, second a muse. Their friendship has taken shape, and he has been sufficiently inspired. He doesn’t need to long for her anymore.

He worries at first about how Henri is taking it, but he doesn’t need to worry much before Henri shows up at the cafe, like clockwork, when he always does.

Jerry and Lise are probably off being besotted with each other, so it’s just them the morning after the ballet. They quickly fail at any kind of rehearsal, so they just sit next to each other on the piano bench, talking.

“So,” Adam says after a while, “the drive?”

Henri shrugs his shoulder in a way that should look casual, but isn’t. They smile at a frequent customer who walks in, and Henri sighs. “Very easy, really. We agreed that we are not suited for the lives we would desire.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Adam nods. “Good. I’m glad.”

Henri looks at him for a moment, beautiful and finally at peace. Then, as if flicking back to the main channel, he says, “And besides, there’s much to do! My mother has agreed to approve of my pursuits if I only continue to learn management.” He grins, and it’s infectious. “Good news, at last, hm?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Hey, you’ll bring an article about the ballet ‘round to my folks when you head over to America?”

Henri’s smile falters for a moment, and then it comes back, a little less easy than before. “Yes, yes, of course.”

It’s obvious to Adam that he’s touched on something that hurts a little bit, so he steps back. “How’s your mom taking the news? About the engagement?”

Henri huffs out a laugh, smiling wryly. “If I find a bride soon enough, do you think she will not notice?”

Adam almost corrects him and says won’t, and then he pauses. It’s not really that wrong, he guesses, and the whole thing is making people happy, isn’t it?

So he doesn’t say anything, just laughs and shakes his head. Henri smiles, and that makes it worth it.

Then, more suddenly than Adam could have prepared for, Henri starts pulling away. He still shows up to their rehearsals, but their conversations are a little more stilted, and he doesn’t banter with Adam as easily as they used to. When Adam starts handing over more and more songs about stopping to revel in the world or being in love, Henri doesn’t shower them with praise like he used to go nuts over any spot of cheeriness.

It’s vain that he misses it, but he does. Henri’s basically the only person who reads these songs, and the only person who ever really gets to know them before they’re performed. No one’s going to write extensive reviews of the songs, all he gets in return is seeing Henri’s happiness at them. And that used to be enough, but ever since he’s started withdrawing from whatever they had, it’s just not.

They go on for months like that, until Henri makes an announcement one afternoon. He looks happier than Adam’s seen him in months, and it makes his heart soar for a half second until Henri actually tells him the cause.

He’s got a ticket. His ticket to America, set to leave sooner than Adam would have ever preferred. Lise and Jerry have already started to plan their lives, involving lots of work and lots of art and maybe, if the world is lucky, some family along the way. He knows that those two won’t be sticking around the land of the clueless much longer, and that sooner or later, Milo will head back home, to America.

He knew that Henri wanted leave, too. But he… he doesn’t know what he expected. He just had always sort of hoped that it wouldn’t pan out.

He fakes happiness, and he writes before he goes to bed. There’s no background to the lyrics, just a smooth, soft melody and words about waiting and wishing.

He imagines a few scenarios. In some of the better ones, Henri makes it big. He’s happy, and he comes home after a while, having made his name in America. They catch up, and halfway through Adam talking about a new concerto, Henri kisses him. In some of the worse ones, Henri comes back home, miserable. And in the worst, Henri yet again is fabulously successful. Except in these, Adam is forgotten, for good, and spends the rest of his life hearing the name of the man he loves that has become a stranger.

He loves Henri. He has become a little bit more comfortable with the idea, the fact that he loves Henri the way he thought he loved Lise. There are plenty of men in the world who love men, that’s the reason it’s prohibited in the first place. And there are countries where there aren’t sodomy laws-- worst comes to worst, Adam can run there and spend his life chasing pretty, dark-haired men who remind him, in the slightest way, of Henri.

It’s this dreadful cycle, because Adam knows Henri likes men, at this point, and he’s pretty sure that Henri knows that he does, too. There’ve been enough cautious comments and questions to ensure that. It’s just that Adam knows he’s dreadfully unlovable, and he isn’t prepared for how badly he wants to be loved back.

A few days after Henri gets the ticket, he comes by to rehearse, only to find the cafe closed up. He knocks on the door for a while until Adam drags himself down from the apartment, having spent the past six hours hunched over a piece of music that he can’t quite perfect.

Henri lets himself in as soon as the door is unlocked, and his confusion turns to immediate concern when he sees Adam’s face. (Theoretically, Adam knows he looks like shit, but Henri’s lips pursing into a frown really nails it home.)

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Adam shrugs one shoulder, stubbing out his cigarette.

“Peachy. You?”

Henri ignores the lie. “You’re angry with me,” he says, and Adam rolls his eyes. Of course he’s fucking angry. The one person who makes Adam believe that the world isn’t going to shit is going to leave, across the fucking Atlantic, and there isn’t one fucking thing Adam can do to  _ fucking  _ stop it.

“Gee, Einstein, you figure that out yourself?” he sits down at the piano for no good reason, except that he doesn’t trust himself on his feet when Henri’s around.

Henri, still standing, sets his suit jacket down and rests his hands on the edge of the piano. “Why are you doing this?”

Maybe it’s the fact that Adam started drinking early in the morning and it’s only nearly out of his system, maybe it’s the fact that he’s loved Henri for a damn while and has yet to say anything. Either way, he spits, “You’re leaving. You’re not talking to me, and you’re leaving.”

“I am talking to you--”

“Not really--”

“And I have been talking about leaving for months!”

Both of them are a little bit pissed by now, and it’s starting to flood into the way Adam’s speaking. “I didn’t think you were actually gonna fucking do it!”

“I thought you were coming with me!”

The sentence hangs in the air, and Adam’s eyes focus on Henri’s hands, his knuckles white from holding the edge of the piano too tightly.

“You did?”

Henri makes a soft, defeated noise. “Of course.”

_ “When  _ we  _ play Radio City Music Hall…” _

The realization hits him like a bullet, straight to his heart, not to his hip like it had seemingly so long ago. Henri had been planning his future for a while, Adam knew that. He had just never recognized himself as a part of that future.

“Oh,” he says, words feeling remarkably insufficient compared to the songs he could write about that exact moment, that exact feeling.

They stare at each other for a moment, and all it takes is two clean steps for Henri to stoop down and kiss Adam like they’ll die in a few moments.

Adam clutches at his shoulders, thanking God for his closed curtains, and Henri slides down to sit on the piano bench with Adam, never once breaking the kiss.

He finally backs away, and Adam heaves for air. They’re still holding each other close, and Adam hears the brass section swell in the back of his mind, a violent fortepiano, and then the volume rising once more, everything crashing together, and the symphony comes to a full, glorious end when Henri leans back in and they kiss the way the movies say you’re supposed to.

Their lives are decidedly messy.

They move to America, and from there, they carve out their own little place in the world. Henri buys an apartment, and they rent the one next door, saying that Adam lives there. In reality, it becomes a sort of guest house for any friend that ends up passing by New York, but the neighbors never tell if Adam rarely enters the home that’s supposed to be his own.

There’s a grand piano in their living room, and they waltz around late at night. Adam’s not any good, but Henri’s good enough for both of them, and they listen to new records every evening.

Henri keeps Adam away from alcohol, because he knows he’s better off without it.

Adam composes, and Henri sings, and all the while, he never writes lyrics for anyone but Henri. His words are for one man and one man alone, regardless of how many commissioners would like a piece of the pie.

Henri half-heartedly studies how one would manage a branch of his family’s company, and they perform in seedy nightclubs at least once a week until they graduate to classier clubs, and after years of ridiculous, painstaking work, they play Radio City Motherfucking Music Hall.

“So, can you live in peace, now?” Adam teases as Henri throws his tux jacket and bow tie onto the table near the door. “You got what you needed?”

Henri rolls his eyes and kisses him fiercely.

“As if,” he says as soon as he pulls away, “I need anything but you.”

They get a cat, and they talk about children a few times, but those plans always fall through. It’s just a little too risky, a little too unreasonable in the time that they’re in.

Henri’s mother gets sick, and before they know it, they’re back in Paris again.

Lise and Jerry rejoice, toasting them that night when they perform at the same club Adam had his epiphany in years ago. Milo takes a stop in her world tour to say hello. Her “assistant”, Adeline, has eyes that are more black than brown, and Adam smiles when he sees the way they look at each other.

Eventually, Adam writes about the moment where everything in his world had collided. He writes about three men who all undeniably love a dancer who moves like concertos flow through her veins, and about art that lifts the soul.

He has to edit some bits out, obviously. But he’s got a story to tell, and so, he tells it.

There’s a new world coming, and he can sense it. Change is brewing in every corner, and it’s about to bubble over, ready to explode.

But for now, he holds Henri tight, and he writes and writes and writes.

After all, he’s got rhythm and music and daisies in green pastures and starlight and sweet dreams. And most importantly, he’s got Henri, and that alone is a blessing, so really, what’s the point of asking for anything else?

**Author's Note:**

> so like 3 people are probably going to read this. i'm pretty ok with that tbh  
uhh yeah. if you liked this i'm sincerely begging u to leave a comment. i'm really thirsty for feedback i'm not gonna lie. i'm probably gonna write more for these two because aaip took over my life again like a week ago and now i legally can't do anything else  
my tumblr is @penzyroamin, so if you want to pop over there and get some dumbass shitposts (psst and rb the post i made for this fic... it has a pretty aesthetic and everything!) feel free!  
thanks for reading this don't forget to like and subscribe gamers


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